Slay it with Flowers (10 page)

“You’ll be able to get prints off the camera, right?” I asked. “That should tell you a lot.”

“Depends on how many people used it. Right now that and the film are our best shots.”

“What about footprints?”

“Since all of you trampled the sand around the body I doubt we’ll find much there.”

“Sorry. If I’d known I was going to find a body I would have been more careful. One thing I forgot to mention, and I don’t know if it’s significant or not, but Jillian noticed that Punch’s gold earring is missing. Apparently he wears it—wore it—all the time.”

Reilly wrote it down, though he didn’t seem very impressed.

“And one other thing,” I said, catching him before he walked away, “I know it looks bad right now, but I truly don’t believe Flip—Phillip—is your murderer.”

“And yet you told me,” he paused to check his notes,

“you don’t know him. In fact, you’ve never met him.”

I bent to scratch the top of my sandaled foot, which had started to itch ferociously. “I don’t understand it myself, but it’s this strong gut feeling I get about things. I mean, look at the evidence—a bloody camera owned by a missing groomsman—it’s just a bit too obvious, don’t you think? Like those TV shows where you think it’s the first guy—the jealous co-worker—and then it turns out to be the victim’s barber who’d been stiffed a tip one time too many?”

Reilly put his notebook and pencil away. “But this
isn’t
TV, remember? When we find strong evidence pointing to one perp, as a rule we’ve got our man.”

“Okay, you said as a rule,” I countered, “which means it could be that—”

“Thank you, Ms. Knight,” Reilly said. “That will be all for now.”

A flashbulb went off near our faces, temporarily blinding me. I glanced around to find a seedy-looking man with two cameras hanging around his neck getting ready to shoot a picture of Jillian and the gang. Another man came scurrying toward us, notepad in hand, causing Reilly to mutter, “Just what I needed to cap my evening, a nosy reporter.”

 

By midnight, the scene of the crime had been cordoned off with yellow police tape, the photographers had packed up their equipment, the coroner was preparing to move the body, police and park rangers were conducting a search for Flip, and we had all been interviewed and fingerprinted. I was the only one of the group, however, who had been targeted as food by sand fleas. The little buggers had crawled under the legs of my chinos for a bedtime snack. So much for the protection of pants. I had broken my own rule about using insect repellent and now I would pay for it.

“You should have sprayed,” Jillian scolded, as I raked the skin around my ankles.

“I know that, Jill.”

She put her hands on her hips and gave me a glare. “Don’t get snippy with me. You’re always the one preaching about using bug spray.”

“I don’t preach.”

“Yes, you do.”

Reilly came over to where we stood facing off like mortal combatants, our teeth chattering slightly in the cool night air. “Okay, ladies and gentlemen, time to go home. Just make sure you don’t leave the county. And I want to know the minute any of you hear from your friend Phillip.”

“Don’t you think you’ll find him?” Sabina asked, her eyes still bloodshot from crying. “His car is here. He
has
to be here. You’ll keep looking, won’t you?”

“Come on, Sabina,” Bertie said, looping an arm through hers. “Let’s let the police do their work.”

“What if he’s hurt, Bertie?” she whined. “What if he’s staggering around in the woods in the dark, dripping blood? What if a cougar smells blood and attacks him?”

“We don’t have cougars,” I told her. “Just squirrels, raccoons, deer, and a few coyotes.”

I shouldn’t have mentioned the coyotes. As we headed back down the trail, Claymore again in the lead, Sabina clung to us fearfully, muttering to herself about bloodthirsty coyotes. When we got down to the parking lot, the old VW Beetle was gone, but Flip’s rental car was still there. We had checked the inside earlier, but no one had opened the trunk. Now I thought it might be a good idea just in case Flip had been bound and gagged and thrown inside.

“You probably shouldn’t touch that,” Claymore said as I approached the driver’s side. “Fingerprints, and all.”

“I know that, Claymore. Jill, do you have a pen handy?”

“You should probably call the police,” Claymore added nervously.

“Do you want to run back up and get them?” I asked him. “And waste valuable time?”

Jillian pulled a sterling silver pen from her purse and handed it to me.

“Not the
Montblanc,
” Claymore cried.

“I’m not going to chisel my way into the trunk with it.” I walked up to the driver’s window, leaned in, and used it to press the trunk release.

Everyone hurried around to take a look, five flashlight beams aimed inside. I edged between Jillian and Bertie and peered into the hollow, but that’s what it was, hollow. Not a clue to Flip’s whereabouts to be found.

“What are you looking at?” said a soft-spoken male voice behind us.

I glanced around to see a tall, slender man in hiking shoes and khaki shorts, a brown T-shirt with a World Wildlife Fund logo on it, pale skin, and fine, brown hair swept to one side, holding a hand over his eyes as six bright circles of light swept over him.

“Flip!” Sabina cried joyfully and stretched out her arms to welcome him.

H
e was covered in nasty red bites, had sand stuck to his arms and legs, and looked disoriented.

“Where have you been?” Bertie asked as everyone crowded around.

Flip turned to point down toward the lake with one hand. The other hand he kept on his forehead. “Down there, somewhere.”

“Didn’t you hear us calling?” Jillian asked crossly. “Do you have any idea what you’ve put us through?”

“Take it easy, Jillian,” I said, squeezing her arm. “Flip, are you feeling all right?”

He looked at me and said in childlike wonderment, “Who are you?”

“I’m Abby, Jillian’s cousin. Does your head hurt?”

“My head?” He stared at his hand as if he hadn’t realized it had been on his head. Then his knees sagged and he grasped Bertie’s shoulder to keep from collapsing.

“Let’s get him on the ground,” I said. Claymore and Bertie helped him sit, his back against the car. He promptly leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

“Did you hit your head?” I asked him.

He said in a faint voice, “I don’t remember.”

“What’s your name?”

“Phillip.”

“Do you know what day it is?”

He opened his eyes and looked at the faces staring at him. “Why are you asking me these questions?”

Ursula moved in, kneeling beside him and sweeping away his hair to examine his head. “He has a huge bump. He may haf a concussion.”

“Flip, do you know what happened to Punch?” Jillian asked.

He looked at her with something like fear. “Why? Isn’t he okay?”

“He’s dead, Flip,” she said with her usual tact. “Someone murdered him.”

It took a moment for the news to register, then Flip clutched his head with both hands and began to rock back and forth, crying, “No! No! No!” Then he covered his face and broke out in loud, heavy sobs.

“Nice going, Jillian,” Sabina snapped, and got down beside Flip and wrapped her arms around him, murmuring soothing words until he stopped rocking and collapsed against her.

I crouched in front of him. “Flip, did you see Punch this evening?”

In between sobs, he nodded.

“Was he alone?”

Another nod.

“Are you sure he didn’t have a girl with him?” Jillian asked.

“I’m s-sure.”

Bertie knelt beside me and asked, “Flip, did you and Punch have words?”

He nodded and the sobs got stronger. “ Bu-but I dididn’t kill—kill him. I only thr-threw my camera at—at him.”

“Did the camera hit his head?”

He scrubbed his eyes to gaze at us. “I—I don’t knknow. I r-ran. Oh, God, he can’t be d-dead!” The sobs started again.

“Hey!” I heard from behind. I looked around to see Reilly and another cop come striding toward us. “What the hell is going on here?”

I got up and brushed the sand off my knees. “We found our missing groomsman.”

Reilly’s eyes got wide, and I motioned for him to step off to one side so I could explain. “Flip came walking up from the direction of the lake five minutes ago. He’s disoriented from a knock on the forehead. I don’t know how serious it is, so go easy on him, okay?”

Reilly gave me a look that said he didn’t appreciate being told what to do. “All right, everyone back away from the car.” He pointed at Flip and said, “Except for him. He stays.” And after the group took three giant steps backward, Reilly crouched in front of Flip and tried to make eye contact.

“Son? Are you ill?”

Flip sniffled, his shoulders still shaking from the hard sobs. “I don’t know.”

“Did you get into a fight tonight?”

I could tell where Reilly’s questions were leading and decided to put an end to it. “Not that I don’t trust you, Reilly, but he should have a lawyer present for anymore questioning.”

He gave me that exasperated look again, then said to his companion, “Let’s get an ambulance out here.” He got to his feet and turned to look at the wedding party, or what was left of them, all milling around like lost sheep. “Would you please go home.” He didn’t pose it as a question.

“I’d like to come with him in the ambulance,” Bertie said, which was quick thinking on his part. No sense giving the cops the opportunity to interrogate Flip alone.

“Unless you’re family, I’m afraid I can’t allow that.”

“Will a cousin do?”

Reilly looked at him askance. “You’re his cousin?”

“On my mother’s side.”

“All right. You can ride with him.”

When Reilly looked away, Bertie winked at us.

“Claymore,” I said, “call Pryce and have him meet the ambulance at the hospital.”

Jillian handed him her phone, and Claymore turned away to make the call.

“Let’s go back to my house,” Jillian said to the rest of us. “We need to talk about this.”

“I have a better idea,” I said, scratching mercilessly at the bites on my legs. “Let’s go see if Onora is in her hotel room.”

 

The lobby of the New Chapel Inn and Suites was typical for a moderately priced hotel—designed to make a person feel like he was in more expensive lodgings without worrying that his money was being sucked from his wallet. To the right of the revolving doors were groups of upholstered bucket chairs in soft green tones nestled around cube-shaped coffee tables, beige Berber carpeting, fake palm trees, and vinyl wallpaper in a muted print. To the left was a maple reception counter topped in a pale green cultured marble. Beyond that was the elevator vestibule.

All five of us strode straight past the counter to the elevators. The clerk, a man in his late twenties, was sitting behind the counter reading a paperback and never looked up.

It must have been quite a book. We took an elevator to the fourth floor, walked down the hall to room 412, and Sabina opened the door with her key.

The suite was narrow and deep, starting with a small sitting room outfitted with an upholstered chair, convertible sofa, and TV, followed by a kitchenette, a generous bathroom, and a bedroom beyond it. The door to the bedroom was locked, so Sabina knocked and called, “Onora? Are you in there?”

It took Jillian and Sabina both pounding and calling to rouse Onora, and then she opened the door and peered at us through heavy-lidded eyes. I couldn’t help but notice her outfit. No cotton pj’s for this siren. She had on a long, sleek, bloodred satin gown with a vine of black flowers embroidered down one side, with a thigh-high split over her right leg. It was something I might wear to a New Year’s Eve party—if I were built like Nicole Kidman—but not to bed to toss around in all night. Looking at Onora’s perfect hair, however, I doubted she tossed, or even moved.

“I’m trying to sleep off my headache,” she said crossly. “What do you want?”

“Where did you get that nightgown? It’s gorgeous!” Jillian exclaimed. Leave it to my cousin to zero in on the important matters.

“Didn’t you hear the phone?” Sabina asked. “We tried to reach you all evening.”

“I took a sleeping pill. Now go away.” She glided back to the bed, eased herself down onto it, and draped a folded washcloth over her eyes.

Everyone but Claymore followed her into the room, which was quite spacious, with two queen-sized beds covered in bland bedspreads that matched the wallpaper, and a long, low bureau with a TV on top. In front of the heavily draped window were two more bucket chairs identical to the ones in the lobby.

“Don’t you want to know why we were trying to reach you?” Ursula asked. I was beginning to think she was quite an instigator.